The Gorge

by Ronald M. Berger

  Marshall turned to Raines. “Are you going to let him railroad me like this?”

  “Let’s just go over yesterday’s events and then decide what to do,” Raines said.

  Carlyle turned to Betts. “Alex, you were with him all morning. Did anything happen before the trip that may have thrown Blake off stride?”

  “He had an argument in the parking lot with his crew. They had hangovers and tried to sneak a six-pack of beer onto the bus. None of them had the right gear, naturally.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took the beer and threw it in the back of my truck.”

  Betts was six feet tall and nearly two hundred twenty pounds. Unlike Marshall, who wore expensive river gear, Betts adopted the ape-man look: torn wetsuit, ripped river shorts, ragged neoprene boots. Before every trip he strapped a ten-inch diver’s knife to his leg with two thick rubber cords. The patch on his life vest read “Paddle or Die.”

  “Then what happened?” Carlyle said.

  “I told them Grace Irwin would sell them gear that would keep them from freezing. I said she made eight bucks an hour, but if they were polite, she’d treat them respectfully.”

  “Did that end the trouble?” Bognor said.

  “You think they were dumb enough to pick a fight with me?”

  “That’s it?” Carlyle said.

  “End of story.”

  “Let’s move on then. Did anything unusual occur between the time you shoved off and when you reached Cedar Ledges?”

  Marshall said, “I’d heard that ice had formed on the Indian, but it didn’t hold us up yesterday.”

  Marshall was underestimating the danger of pack ice. Eight years ago, an enormous ice jam had broken up in Cedar Ledges. When it collided with boulders, it sounded like a locomotive plowing through steel bridge girders. They had to work like galley slaves to reach the safety of slow-moving water below Elephant Rock.

  “So the only problem was those drunks and the threat of ice?”

  Nash cleared his throat. “One other thing. I had a woman turn hypothermic on me almost as soon as we left the basin.”

  “How’d you handle it?” Carlyle said.

  “I gave her dry clothing and hot soup, but she didn’t stop shaking until we got her on the bus at North River.”

  “Okay, then.” Carlyle looked over the list of questions he’d made last night. “I think it’s time to talk about Blake. Is there anything in Chris’s background that we need to know about?”

  Betts said, “There’s nothing much to say. He was just a great kid. End of story.”

  “Come on,” Carlyle said. “Are you trying to tell us he never screwed up all the time he worked with you?”

  Betts fiddled with a set of keys for a minute before answering Carlyle. “He forgot to bring the hypo bag in his boat one time last year. We didn’t discover it was missing until we got to the Boreas.”

  Bognor raised his hand. “You folks mind telling me what a hypo bag is?”

  Carlyle said, “A large waterproof container where we put spare clothing—jackets, sweaters, hats, gloves, everything you can imagine—in case someone gets cold.”

  “We never let him forget it,” Betts said. “Jesse Simmons and I made him wear a stupid green and red wool hat, the kind with ear flaps, all spring.”

  Carlyle, who was writing as Betts talked, looked up. “Jesse Simmons?”

  “One of Burton’s regulars. He works for us occasionally.”

  The brutal hazing rookie guides like Blake endured had a single purpose: to remind them that even minor errors could have significant consequences. “You think Blake learned his lesson?”

  “He was totally mortified,” Betts said. “The kid apologized to all of us the next day at a guide’s meeting and swore he’d never do anything that dumb again.”

  “But he didn’t walk away from the job.”

  “Are you kidding? He grew up in a double-wide in the hills somewhere. This was the best gig he’d ever had.”

  Bognor rocked back in his chair. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you all sound like he was some kind of angel.”

  Betts and Marshall stared at each other for several seconds. Then Betts said, “Blake came to work here when he was seventeen. He had his issues.” Betts told them that Blake had dropped out of high school in eleventh grade and spent two years scrubbing pots in a diner in Warrensburg. Then, one January, after three beers, he wrapped his pickup around a telephone pole. “I told him, ‘Keep it up and you’re going to kill someone.’”

  “He tell you to mind your own business?” Carlyle said.

  “He admitted he was headed for jail or rehab.”

  Bognor asked, “Did he stop drinking?”

  Marshall nodded. “Absolutely. I offered him a Coors after he passed his written exam. He turned it down. Told me he was going to get a better job at the diner, propose to his girlfriend, and tell his parents that they could stop worrying about him.”

  Carlyle put down his pen. “How did he do during his apprentice year?”

  Betts said, “He watched river videos till his eyes turned red and passed his DEC test just fine.”

  “Was there ever any sign that he would make a mistake like the one he made yesterday?”

  “None at all.”

  “Come on. He was nineteen.”

  Betts sneered. “A college professor might not understand why working for eighty bucks a day could be so important to someone like him.”

  Carlyle ignored the jab. “What about drugs?”

  “Never.”

  “You expect us to believe that?”

  “He was a kid. More balls than brains at times, but he swore he didn’t do that shit.”

  “I guess we’ll have to take your word for it.” Carlyle turned to Marshall. “Think, did anything happen just before the accident that could explain why he ran into that log?”

  “You were there, for God’s sake. Why make me describe it again?”

  “The sheriff and Raines aren’t familiar with what we’re trying to describe. They need to hear it from someone who was close to Blake.”

  “I was right in front of him all morning,” Marshall said. “He seemed fine when we got to the Confluence.”

  Carlyle looked down at his notes. “One thing is bothering me. How come you decided to run the chute yesterday?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gauntlet’s just fifteen feet wide and filled with boulders. Seems like a pretty risky choice.”

  “Cedar is often iced over this time of year, but there’s always moving water on the right. You know that.”

  “Are you trying to tell us you never once worried about going in there?” Carlyle said.

  “I’ve spent a decade on that river. You think anything out there’s going to surprise me?”

  “Let’s go back to my earlier question. You got through that chute. Blake didn’t. Can you give us any reason why he got hung up?”

  Marshall thought for a moment “It was dark in there,” he said. “There were trees all around us, my boat was moving like crazy. When I saw the log hanging out over the water I shouted, ‘Watch your heads.’ I missed it by inches. When we got to the bottom of the chute I made a hard-left turn into the main current. It was all over in seconds.”

  “There were no other obstacles in there?”

  “Just that goddamn log.”

  Carlyle checked off one line in his two-page list. “Why didn’t someone who’d run the chute earlier warn you?”

  “We were the first outfit on the river yesterday. You know that.”

  “How come you didn’t let Blake know about the log?”

  “Are you completely nuts? By the time I was able to raise my head, we were twenty yards downstream. What was I supposed to do, pull over, run back upstream, and warn him?”

  “That doesn’t answer the one question we’re all wondering about. Why was Blake the only person in his boat who got clobbered?”

  Betts said,
“You know the answer to that. A guide sits on the back tube, six to nine inches higher than his clients.”

  “Let me rephrase my question. Why was he the only guide who got hit?”

  Betts said, “How the hell would we know that?

  Bognor, who’d been silent for several minutes, said, “Alex, could his crew have screwed up in some way?”

  “They were knuckleheads, like I said, but from what I could see, once we got to the river they sobered up fast.”

  “What happened when they realized he was gone?” Bognor said.

  “They thought he was playing some kind of prank on them.”

  “What did you think?”

  Nash answered for Betts. “I knew right away something was wrong.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Guides never leave their boats. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Any idea why his body turned up so soon?” Bognor said.

  Nash looked horrified. “Jesus, do I have to answer that?”

  “I know how difficult this is Keith,” Carlyle said.

  Nash shook his head. “I can’t explain it. Maybe a block of ice came through and shoved him to the surface.”

  “We have any idea how long he was under?” Bognor said.

  “It couldn’t have been more than eight or ten minutes.”

  “Keith, I have to ask you this,” Bognor said. “Can you describe his body?”

  Nash leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “The right side of his face was smashed. His left arm was across his chest. His skin was pale. I remember, this is crazy, there was moss under the fingernails of his right hand.”

  “You did CPR?” Bognor said.

  “Of course. You know that extreme cold can prolong survival times.”

  “But there was no reaction?”

  “We must have been past the margin of error.”

  Bognor turned to Marshall. “Has your dad heard about this yet?”

  “He only reads the Philly papers. I’ll tell him when he gets back from St. Thomas.”

  “Let’s take a break,” Carlyle said. “I’ll see you all back here in twenty minutes.”

  When the others wandered off for coffee, Bognor came up to Carlyle. “You mind coming outside for a minute?”

  The two men left the lodge and walked out to the bridge straddling the Hudson. Carlyle buttoned up his jacket and stared down at the river.

  Bognor pulled a pack of unfiltered Camels from his shirt pocket. “Already had one vein in my leg replaced this year. I suppose this won’t help. Let me ask you something. You get the impression Marshall doesn’t seem all that fond of his father?”

  Carlyle turned his face away from the wind. “The old man put Ryan in a military academy. From what I hear, they still don’t speak to each other very often.”

  Bognor leaned against the bridge railing. “You been doing this job long, tracking down bad guys?”

  Carlyle waited while an eighteen-wheel lumber truck downshifted off the mountain and roared past. “God, no. I study crimes, not solve them.”

  “Then why did they put you on this case?”

  “Probably to keep things semi-official and low-profile until DEC decides how they want to handle the two deaths.”

  “You conducted yourself pretty well in that meeting. I’m told Betts can be hard to keep under control.”

  “The man has been known to toss furniture when he gets pissed off.”

  Bognor flipped his cigarette into the wind. “I suppose you understand that no matter what happens, some people will blame you for siding with the authorities.”

  “I’m not anybody’s stalking horse John.”

  “And I certainly didn’t sign up for homicide duty when I moved to a rural county.” Bognor straightened up and turned toward the lodge. “I’m just saying, you’d best take cover when the shit starts flying.”

  Thirty minutes later, just as Carlyle began to wrap up his interrogation of Marshall and the other guides, Caleb Pierce, Bognor’s Deputy, walked through the door.

  “Caleb, this is a DEC inquiry.” Bognor said. “You should be out on patrol.”

  Pierce sat down and placed a thick file on the table. “Sheriff, this outfit has lost two guides in the past five days. Don’t you think we should know why?”

  Pierce was five nine and weighed two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. He carried a Glock and a three-foot club on his hip belt.

  Leo Wells stared at Pierce. “You heard the sheriff. This meeting is none of your business.”

  “Leo, I don’t see how you can mind if I ask a few questions.” Although Pierce must have been on duty since early morning, his dark gray uniform was still laundry crisp.

  “Make it quick then,” Wells said.

  Pierce opened his file and began arranging the papers in front of him. “First, I’d like to know why someone didn’t remove that log before you all entered that particular section of the river.”

  Wells said, “How the hell were they supposed to know it was there?”

  Pierce stared at his short, thick fingers and immaculately trimmed nails. “Watch your language, please.”

  Debbie, Marshall’s wife, opened the door. “The reporters want to know what the Deputy is doing here.”

  Bognor said, “Tell them to hold on. I’ll be out shortly.”

  When Debbie left, Pierce said, “I’ll accept that for the moment. My next question is this: What do we really know about this kid?”

  Carlyle passed a folder over to Pierce. “We pulled Blake’s complete file from Fish and Game. There’s not much to go on.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Pierce said. Everyone in the room turned toward him.

  “If you’ve got some information,” Carlyle said, “Let’s have it.”

  Pierce held up a file. “Let’s see now. This is a state police report. It says he flipped his truck last February 15. It was eight in the evening and snowing. Blake was driving too fast for conditions. No one got hurt, but it does seem kind of reckless, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What does that prove?” Marshall said. “Everybody here has had an accident on these roads.”

  “Hold on, I didn’t say I’d finished, did I?” He turned the page. “Blake’s had three other moving violations. Turning right without stopping at a red light, drifting over the double yellow twice, and, more seriously, side-swiping a kid on a bicycle.” Pierce looked up and stared at Marshall. “Your employee wasn’t exactly a choir boy, was he now?”

  Betts stood up. “Wait a minute. Who the hell made you the district attorney around here?”

  “Alex, don’t take this personally. I’m just trying to assist this investigation.”

  “Bullshit! You want to make this kid responsible for what happened yesterday.”

  While Betts and Pierce continued yelling at each other, Carlyle began drawing a diagram of the chute where Blake died. He estimated that it was at least a hundred yards long, maybe fifteen wide. He put an X where Blake hit the log, a second X where he fell overboard, and another ten yards downstream where Nash found the body. Ignoring the sound of Betts’s voice, he stared at the page in front of him. When there was a break in the argument, Carlyle looked up. “Caleb, is there anything else in that file?”

  Pierce looked through the papers in front of him. “Not much. Birth certificate, high school graduation records, application for the job here, and two letters of recommendation.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, there’s one more thing. His DEC file with his test scores and a copy of his driver’s license.”

  Carlyle leaned forward. “Anything unusual on the license?”

  “Not that I can see. Home address, DOB, date issued, and expiration. It says he had brown eyes and was five foot nine.”

  While Pierce was examining Blake’s permit, Carlyle reached into his back pocket and pulled his own license from his wallet. “Look all the way down on page one of the Xerox copy in front of you and tell us what’s there.”


  “A letter—R.”

  “And it says what?”

  “See other side.”

  “Now look at the next page, bottom right, under Restrictions.”

  “Got it.” Pierce sat up straight. “Christ. You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Read it.”

  “Subject has no sight: right eye.”

  Marshall stood up. “I told you Blake’s accident wasn’t our fault. Now let’s get out of here and back to work.”

  When Carlyle left the lodge ten minutes later, he found Bognor leaning against his patrol car, a beat-up, metallic blue ‘97 Dodge Charger. “Is Pierce always so belligerent?”

  “You have no idea. His first day at work, I told him he didn’t have to shave his scalp to show how tough he was, that people around here would respect the badge and the uniform. He said he’d been hired to arrest people, not make friends.”

  Carlyle shoved his hands into his pockets. “I suppose he’s had his share of run-ins with guides.”

  Bognor laughed. “Oh, my God, has he ever. Pierce once tried to evict Munck for failure to pay his back rent. When Munck refused to leave his cabin, Pierce pepper sprayed him and then threw him in the county jail overnight.”

  “Apart from the strong-arm stuff, how’s he done his job?”

  “In his first three months, he cited a local teacher for doing seven over the fifty-five limit and a widow on food stamps for driving with a busted headlamp. He’s harassed grieving families on their way to funerals, teenagers who park in the woods, and pensioners caught without fishing licenses.”

  “You ever ask him to explain his storm trooper act?”

  “I did say I got the feeling he didn’t especially like poor folk.”

  Carlyle shuffled his feet to keep warm. “How did he take it?”

  “He said he’d grown up on white bread and margarine sandwiches. His parents spent half their lives in court defending themselves against the charge of being unemployed. He wanted people around here to understand the legal system was stacked against them.”

  “Any formal complaints against him?”

  “I don’t think anyone would risk it.”

  “He and Betts have a history?”

  “Pierce has a thing about long-haired types. I’m surprised they haven’t come to blows.”